


you came with lipstick and some bruises and another's arms

by frostbitten



Series: ghosts that we knew [2]
Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, bizarre mix of 616 and mcu, eventual polyamory, someday i might finish this, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-02 01:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitten/pseuds/frostbitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know nothing, Clint Barton. She is mine." And I am hers, you want to say, but you don't know if that's true anymore. "She will always be mine, long after I am dust. She was created to be mine. We belong together." You could only ever belong to Natalia, you think, even if you preferred otherwise. She is the only one who could ever understand you—more than understand you, accept you and still love you as only certain dark things are to be loved. People fear you like they fear monsters lurking in the dark, but they are wrong: you are not the monster. You are the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. words she left on my lips were bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> In 616 canon, Clint helped give Natasha the courage to defect from the KGB. In MCU canon, he was sent to kill her but made a different call. I'd like think he could help Yelena realize she is worth salvaging.

Clint looks at Natalia with such affection in his eyes that it makes you snarl.

"Mine," you growl, stalking towards him predatorily. He barks out a laugh and shakes his head, smiling at your display.

"Natasha's her own person. She doesn't belong t'anyone." You laugh, too, but it is unkind and more akin to a howl.

"You know nothing, Clint Barton. She is mine." And I am hers, you want to say, but you don't know if that's true anymore. "She will always be mine, long after I am dust. She was created to be mine. We belong together." You could only ever belong to Natalia, you think, even if you preferred otherwise. She is the only one who could ever understand you—more than understand you, accept you and still love you as only certain dark things are to be loved. People fear you like they fear monsters lurking in the dark, but they are wrong: you are not the monster. You are the dark. 

You have heard the stories about what the God of Lies did to the archer, and you feel sympathy for him, of course, but he could never understand that sometimes you killed just because you could; only people who deserve it, of course, but Clint is an Avenger. He would never accept you once he learned the whole truth of your past. Clint is rugged and rough, yes, but he is good, and with a pang you realize what Natalia sees in him. 

"She deserves the world," you say to Clint and your voice breaks. It is not until then that you realize your body has decided to betray you, and does so again when it allows hot tears to well up in your eyes.

"So d'you," Clint says, folding his arms across his chest, staring at you like he expects you to shout otherwise. You just shake your head, hoping that your vision will clear up and that the tears will never make it past your eyes.


	2. the fear has gripped me but here i go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say Yelena hadn’t known what fear was would’ve been a lie—she had been a Black Widow, the second and the last of her name, and fear was something that she’d known intimately, was something she had induced every day of her life and had taken pleasure and pride in doing so. Of all the many things Yelena had known, both things she’d learned and things she had come into the world knowing, she had never known—never even entertained the idea as more than a passing thought—that she would die, and Natasha, in an uncharacteristic movement born of love and fondness, had allowed herself not to imagine it, either. She was certainly paying the price now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Yelena dead or isn't she? Who knows? Certainly not me (that's not even sarcasm. I really don't know).

Snow was falling at an alarming rate, Natasha noticed, watching the fat flakes clumsily dancing their way to the ground. The spy absentmindedly pulled the throw blanket tighter around her shoulders, wishing she were anywhere else but there.

“Natasha, it wasn’t yer fault.” She ignored the owner of the voice behind her and continued to look out the large window at the world outside.

“Natasha, come on.” She sat down in a creaky, battered rocking chair and said nothing, bundling herself in her blanket and resting her head on her knees.

“Natasha—”

“Clint, _please._ ” That was the closest she would come to outright asking him to drop it. Natasha closed her eyes, unable to look at the flurries outside of her safehouse without the snowflakes taking the shape of a woman wearing a triumphant shark-like smile before it slowly morphed into something desperate and raw. The woman’s outstretched arms reached for the other spy, despite that—or maybe because—they both knew she was doomed. _Catch me, Natalia!_

“I’m _not_ lettin’ go a’this, Nat!” Clint’s voice broke when he said her name, and she closed her eyes. “Stop plannin’ her funeral in yer head when we never found her body!”

“You didn’t see her face when she fell, Clint. I’ve never seen her look like that before, not even when she’d been shot six times. Yelena doesn’t—didn’t know how to feel afraid.” To say Yelena hadn’t known what fear was would’ve been a lie—she had been a Black Widow, the second and the last of her name, and fear was something that she’d known intimately, was something she had induced every day of her life and had taken pleasure and pride in doing so. Of all the many things Yelena had known, both things she’d learned and things she had come into the world knowing, she had never known—never even entertained the idea as more than a passing thought—that she would die, and Natasha, in an uncharacteristic movement born of love and fondness, had allowed herself not to imagine it, either. She was certainly paying the price now.


End file.
